


A study on Sourwolves

by MeanwhileMelody



Series: The Science of Sourwolves [2]
Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Cheesiest of the cheese, Fluffier than a cotton ball, M/M, Mating habits are studied, Scott and Lydia are in on the scheme, derek is so in love, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5427443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeanwhileMelody/pseuds/MeanwhileMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Lydia have done their part. Cora flew in from South America. It was too late to knock Stiles out, haul him over his shoulder, and drive to Vegas to be married by an Elvis impersonator. So it looked like Derek was proposing the old fashioned way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A study on Sourwolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lordkirashand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordkirashand/gifts).



> I thought of the children, and then I got sappy. Forgive me.

Derek was being strangled. His throat was tight, everything was hot, and narrowing down into what few breaths he could get in and out. Breaths? More like the wheezing of an asthmatic hamster. In and out, frantically, barely able to inhale before the breaths were coming back out in great, shuddering heaves. His skin felt too hot, too tight, his life was flashing before his very eyes- "Cora, this is supposed to be a tie, not a corset, get it the hell off of me!"

Mercilessly, his sister just tightened the satin around his throat, folding down the collar of his shirt, until he looked up to her standards of acceptable. Derek still couldn't breathe. Maybe that had more to do with the ring burning a hole in his pocket, and the churning nerves in his gut. Or maybe Cora really was trying to kill him. With designer ties. But she looked so soft, when she straightened said tie/noose, that Derek couldn't stay suspicious of her for long.

Usually so sharp, and cynical, his little sister had warmth in her eyes, when she looked at him. She might not be smiling, but she was a Hale, through and through. He thought she'd use up her one expression of joy per year on something more important than her older brother getting engaged. Or. Hopefully getting engaged. She was there. Her eyes held warmth. That was more that enough for Derek. More than he'd ever thought he'd get.

When she'd first come back, she'd been angry, cold, just like him. A kid with no family suddenly realizing that there was still someone there- but they weren't enough. Both Cora and Derek had felt lemon juice in their wounds when they saw each other. Because it was hard. Suddenly having family again. Suddenly having to remember a time when that family was happy, instead of shredded into tiny pieces that Kate Argent could use as confetti. It had been hard for the both of them. And Derek had understood, why Cora had wished that it was Laura, instead of him. Why she'd blamed him. He was the one that had broken them.

So it was only right that he was the one that put them together again. And part of doing that, was giving each other their space. She had a home now, in South America, A life, a new family, and a pack that Derek would never ask her to leave, just as she would never ask him to leave his. One with Stiles, and the pack. One where Beacon Hills was no longer a graveyard, where he saw the faces of his pack at every turn. Saw Laura in the woods grinning at him with too many sharp teeth, urging him to run faster, to catch up. Saw his mother in the town hall, strong and fierce. His father in their home, cooking up a storm, kissing his cubs before shooing them out to run off that wild animal energy before sitting down to dinner.

Now when he looked at Beacon Hills, he saw Scott, wrapping up a puppy's sprain and being rewarded with wet, slobbery kisses. He saw Lydia with her hands full of shopping bags and library books alike, already on her way towards running the world. Isaac, gone from lurking in the shadows to standing in the sun, proud and strong. 

And most of all, most dearly of all, he saw Stiles. Derek saw Stiles everywhere he went. He saw Stiles in the library, chewing on his pencil, and being shushed every five minutes by increasingly exasperated librarians. He saw him gesticulating wildly at Derek in their diner, knocking down his milkshake and nearly crying, until Derek shoved his own Stiles' way. Later, Stiles expressed that the only thing that could have made it better would have been Derek nudging the milkshake over with his nose, Lady and the Tramp style. But most of all, he saw Stiles every morning in his bed, the sun just coming up, to sprawl rays of sunshine over Stiles' skin. His restless tossing and turning stilling, as he opened up those big doe eyes, and grimaced at Derek, groaning pitifully, and turning over to shove his head back into his pillow. Or Derek's chest. Whichever was closest. Stiles hated mornings with a passion.

Hatred for mornings or not- Stiles' smile when Derek brought him coffee to coax him out from the warmth of their bed was more blinding than the rising sun. And Derek wanted to see it every single day of his life. He wanted to see Stiles shuffle into their kitchen like Frankenstein's monster every morning. He wanted the bleary morning breath kisses, and the way Stiles stole the crispiest bacon off his plate. He wanted them to stay like this until they were old and grey, and Stiles was gluing fangs on his dentures just to get a laugh out of Derek.

So Derek let Cora stuff him into a suit that was more a jail for his body than actual clothes, and tighten his tie, and he let her hug him, too. She smelled of passionfruit and the rainforest, and her hair tickled under his nose. "It was easier in the old days, wasn't it?" She asked, gruffly. Probably trying to hide the pride and slight thickness of oncoming tears in her voice. Hales didn't cry. Too tough for that. "When you could just club your mate over your head and carry them back to your den?"

"So much easier. But you know Stiles." Derek squeezed his little sister tight, and withdrew. "His head is too thick. I'd break my club."

He'd told Stiles that Cora was just in for the holidays. Not that she was here to help him scheme his proposal. Comic con? No, that would be their honeymoon. Rent out a restaurant? Stiles would be too busy stuffing his face to say yes or no. In the end, they'd exhausted their options, and decided to just do things simple. Traditional. 

Kidnap Stiles, put him in the trunk and drive to Vegas like the law was on their heels. Which, it probably would have been, if Derek hadn't asked Stiles' father's permission first, and been welcomed into the family with a beer and the game on TV. And if Cora hadn't vetoed this excellent, traditional, very romantic idea with a shake of her head and a sound of disgust. Much to his disappointment. Stiles would have liked being married by an Elvis impersonator. Instead, he was stuck with plan B.

Plan B, started with Lydia, sliding a new paper into Stiles' usual messy stack of ungraded essays. A TA's work was never done. Stiles had nearly pulled his hair out a few times, shrieking about the difference between 'your' and 'you're'. He'd then promptly hung his head on Derek's shoulder, and sobbed that these idiot college kids were turning him into a monster. A monster that corrected grammar. Apparently, Stiles' monster of choice was werewolves. Which Derek was basing his entire proposal on.

Scott, also in on it, played his part by selflessly hanging out with Stiles while he inched his way through a stack of college essays, probably half of which were written while the authors guzzled energy drinks spiked with booze to get themselves through their deadlines. And the moment he noticed Derek's paper at the top of the pile. an alert was sent to the Sourwolf himself, and Scott was making his excuses and out the door.

Stiles would start by reading the title. 'A Study in Sourwolf'. Around this time, he was probably wondering who the hell was pranking him, which was Derek's cue to walk through the door. Clad in a fancy suit, with one hand suspiciously in his pocket. This was it. This was his moment. Derek was more afraid right now than he was any of the thousand times he'd nearly died. 

He must have made quite the ominous sight. He certainly looked like he was about to announce that the suit was because they were going to a funeral, or worse, that he'd been best man in Scott's wedding and Stiles hadn't been invited. But he held his ground. Even when his stomach rioted against him, and he had to swallow hard to keep his last meal from coming up. Stiles wouldn't reject him. And even if he did, Stiles loved him too much to leave him. He did. He said so all the time. Derek could do this. 

"Don't know how that got in there. That's an Oral essay." Stiles snickered right on cue, immature child that he was, and Derek snatched the paper out of long fingers in seconds. He cleared his throat, heart racing, and before Stiles could open his mouth any further, and get the words 'What's going on' or 'That's what she said' out of his mouth, he cut him off.

"A study in the mating habits of the Sourwolfus Growlificus." God, was it hot in here? Derek was burning up. He loosened his tie with one hand, nerves taking over, more important than his need to look good for Stiles. 

"Mating season starts April Eighth." Stiles' eighteenth birthday. "But the beginning of courtship can take place long before. The establishing of trust. Keeping their mate safe and alive, and being pulled out of trouble countless times by a very brave, very foolish human. The late night research, watching too many bad werewolf movies and eating enough burgers to irrevocably clog your arteries. The fights, the bickering- it just makes the mated pair stronger, once they get through it."

Stiles' eyes were so wide. Derek swallowed hard, and continued. Nothing could stop him now. The words were rushing out of him, all in one big burst, stumbling over each letter. "But once mating season begins- things change. Suddenly, the sourwolf will begin to find Batman t-shirts in his laundry bin. He'll fall and nearly break his neck over stacks of books that aren't his. His loft will be slowly appropriated until it's no longer his. It's theirs."

"And this stage can go on for a long time, before the werewolf finally gets the guts to tell his mate that he loves him- But that won't matter, because his mate will beat him to it. And all he'll ever be able to do, is say it back, over and over again." Derek's voice was rough now, remembering that first time, being so determined to get it out, and having Stiles say it instead, so casually, like he said it every day, like it wasn't the most important thing in the world. Offhand. Without a single skip in his heartbeat.

"Eventually, this werewolf will get his head out of his ass. And realize he wants to say it forever. For the rest of his life." The floor of the loft was cold on his knees, even through the tailored pants. 

"Sourwolves make good mates. They're loyal, and they're strong, and they will always do whatever it takes to make their mates happy. Even if that means that they have to listen to the worst dog jokes, or pretend to like DC better than Marvel. But these particular werewolves aren't perfect. They'll continue to take up the left side of the bed, and go for runs in the morning that leave them sweaty and disgusting, and still get back into bed that way, to wake up their mates. "

Stiles' eyes were so wide that they might just pop right out of his head. And his heart was beating just about as fast as Derek's, at a pace Derek usually only heard when he was in the woods, chasing down a terrified rabbit for dinner. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, forcing himself not to think about rejection, and then opening them again, and looking back up at Stiles earnestly. 

"I promise to love you. For the rest of my life. And I promise that I'll never put pineapple on our pizza. I promise to-" 

"Shut up." 

Everything went quiet for a moment. Derek didn't breathe. Didn't blink. Didn't move a muscle. Stiles' voice was quavering, and he held out his hand. "Where's the ring?"

Wordlessly, Derek held it up. A simple, gold band, stamped with his triskelion. Stiles didn't even let him do the honors. He shoved it on his finger himself. Then, beaming so wide it looked like his mouth would split right open, he pounced on Derek, laughing a laugh that sounded too close to a sob, and kissing him, all over. His cheeks, his forehead, his nose, the corner of his mouth, his chin. 

"A plus." Stiles' voice was clogged with emotion. "I give the damn paper an A plus, an I do, and a forever. Yes, Derek, yes. Let's do this. Let's do forever."

So they did. And Derek's essay, much more eloquent and worthy of publishing on paper, than it had been coming out of his mouth, was laminated and framed, and now referenced around their household as the most relevant scientific study ever done on the love of a Sourwolf.


End file.
